


when the pretty birds have flown

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Comeplay, Community: daily_deviant, Community: kinky_kristmas, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Multi, Oral Sex, Rimming, Spitroasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 02:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3156845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One bed, three boys, and a little bit of post-breakup comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when the pretty birds have flown

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fic I wrote for Kinky Kristmas in our double-blind prompts, and I was thrilled to find out when I posted that I had written for torino10154. The prompt said _take a chance on me_ and I was suddenly ear wormed, and this fic came about. And of course, the title comes from ABBA’s song “Take a Chance on Me” and that’s my inspiration. I tried to get all of the requested kinks/themes in, although I missed a couple and wish I had managed to spend more time on others. I slipped over to the hurt/comfort and nascent romance side of things, which slowed down the roughness a good bit!

“To Astoria.” Draco lifts his glass high, the liquid sloshing in the bright light of Harry’s living room. “Without whose refusal to partake in a sham of a marriage this particular night of drinking would not have come about.”

“Sham of a marriage?” Neville leans past Draco, elbowing him lightly to nudge him back, away from the decanter of Firewhiskey, so that he can grab hold and pass it to Harry. 

It’s a good year, well-aged and with a sharp bite. Harry’d been saving it for a special occasion, and he supposes that the drowning of his friend’s sorrows is a good enough occasion for it. He pours two fingers into the glass for himself then fills Neville’s glass as well.

Even if it’s not special enough, it’s too late. Draco had walked in an hour ago and went straight to the liquor cabinet, opening it up without so much as a by your leave, and the thing was now half gone.

Neville pokes Draco’s shoulder. “Marriage is marriage. It’s only a sham if it doesn’t happen.”

“Ah, but there you have it.” Draco pats Neville’s knee. “You see, Astoria is in love with Susan Bones, and her parents do not approve. They’ve eloped by now, gone off to the continent to marry in Paris or some rot, I believe. I’ve been left behind, too bent to matter anyway.”

“Still, if you’d been _married_ ,” Neville prods at the subject. “You would have gone through with it.”

“Would I have?” Draco raises an eyebrow. “Astoria’s rather _soft_ , don’t you think? All curves and pale skin. I don’t think she’d do it for me. She is pretty, however. Classically beautiful, like a Greek statue made from a Renaissance painting.”

“That makes no sense, Draco,” Harry points out.

“Doesn’t it?” He tilts his glass again, toasting to nothing before he knocks it back. “This is almost passable, Harry. You’ve learned how to drink.”

“You bought it for me for Christmas three years ago,” Harry says, not bothering to defend himself against the aspersions Draco casts on his taste. “I’d been saving it.”

“Well then, it only serves that I brought it out now.” Draco leans back, arm dangling across the back of the sofa, fingers almost brushing Neville’s shoulders. “Apparently even three years ago I knew that I might need to drown my sorrows, and hoped you’d have something decent around for me to do it with.”

“So it’s a good thing Harry didn’t bring it out when Hannah and I broke it off, then?” Neville asks.

“You broke it off with _Hannah_ ,” Draco points a finger at Neville’s chest while making his point. “She did not simply leave you for her lover. _Not_ that I am at all fussed that Astoria has a lover. She’s a good woman, Susan Bones. Makes Astoria happy. I’d just rather expected that we’d still be married.”

“Did you want to be?” Harry still remembers the relief he felt when Ginny and he had finally split up. They’d managed to go on for five years after the war, the relationship lingering while they tried to sort their lives into some semblance of order. Then one morning they’d simply been done, and she’d packed her things and left Harry with the flat while she moved into one closer to the Harpies. It had all been disturbingly civilized, and Harry hadn’t been on his own long before Neville moved in after breaking things off with Hannah.

He still wasn’t sure if he was upset over the situation or not. By all rights, he should miss her. The love he’d had since childhood. The woman he’d thought he would marry.

Of course, there are other things that might have come to mind in the months since.

Life is complicated.

Draco turns the glass in his hand, peering at it from all angles as the light seems to change the color of the liquid. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “There is something appealing in having a friend so dear that you wake up with them each morning.”

Neville snorts softly, and Draco looks at him, grey eyes narrowed. “What?” he asks.

“You don’t need to be married for that, mate. After all, I’ve got Harry.” Neville nudges Draco. “Friends are friends, right?”

“It’s not the same.” Draco’s eyeroll states clearly that he is positive that Neville _misunderstood_ , and that leaves it to Harry to set the record straight. Well, somewhat straight.

“It is,” he says, and when Draco pins him with that furrowed, dark look, Harry elaborates. “The same. It’s not a large flat, and the spare bedroom is like a closet. Ginny and I bought this huge bed before we broke it off, so Neville just sleeps there.”

“With you.”

The words are flat, not a question at all, and Harry finds himself flushing even though there is absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. “With me,” he says, keeping his voice even. “He’d just broken it off with Hannah, and I sleep better when there’s someone else there, and of course, Gin had moved out which is why Neville moved in here in the first place. It works.”

“And you…” Draco tilts his hand first to Neville, then to Harry, then back again, his pale eyebrows arched.

Neville looks down at the table. “Er.”

Harry isn’t sure exactly what the question is, so he doesn’t answer. Not that he needs to, since Draco’s still talking.

“And why didn’t I know this?”

“There’s only one bed in the flat, Draco. Where the bloody hell did you _think_ Nev’s been sleeping for the past month?” Harry pushes to his feet, wobbles and steadies at Draco’s touch to his leg. “It’s just… it works. For us. For now.”

“For now,” Neville echoes quietly, and Harry wonders at the tone in his voice.

Draco sets the empty tumbler on the coffee table then leans back. “You’re lucky,” he says. “It appealed, you know? I love Astoria, for all that we aren’t compatible physically. She is one of my dearest friends, and we suited. We would have been able to live together well, and we would have gone our own ways in the matters of the flesh. Now I shall either continue to live alone, or must begin again in finding someone to suit.”

“For a sham of a marriage?” Harry asks quietly.

“Yes, Harry, for a sham of a marriage,” he says dryly. “I should like to have children someday, perhaps. Carry on the Malfoy name. And while considering the potential for something _more_ is an attractive daydream, that is all it is. I know very few men who are bent and available, and trust fewer.” Draco shrugs. “This is what I expected of my life after the war.”

“You’re being maudlin.” Neville slides a bit closer to Draco on the sofa, leans into him. “Don’t. No matter what, you’ve still got us.”

“You’ve got each other.”

When Draco looks at Neville and speaks so plainly, Harry feels strangely like he’s become an outsider in his own home. Loneliness echoes in their gazes, and he shifts from foot to foot to see it. It makes him ache, and he hates the idea that somehow he is at fault for either of his friends looking like that, even if he’s not sure exactly how that is.

“Stay,” he says.

They both look over, Neville’s eyes wide, and Draco’s mouth pursed, brows furrowed again at Harry’s command. He smiles, feels like it does nothing to allay whatever concerns they may have. “Stay,” Harry repeats. “You’re absolutely plastered right now, and you oughtn’t be home alone, not after…” He waves one hand. “You need a friend. So stay.”

“You’ve only the one bed,” Draco says slowly, as if pointing out basic colors to a small child.

Nerves coil in Harry’s gut because oh, now his mind is catching up to his instincts. “I know. You two take the bed; I’ll kip on the sofa. It’ll be fine for the night.”

It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? Nudging Neville and Draco into the same space, after the look he just saw exchanged. Draco needs comfort, and Neville… Harry knows Neville needs someone. And Draco’s a good bloke. Maybe there is a chance for them both to get everything they’re looking for, if they only look in the right place.

“You don’t need to kip on the sofa.” Neville comes to his feet with surprising grace after the amount he’s drunk. He offers one hand to Draco, tugging him to stand as well. “The bed’s huge, Harry, big enough for three. We might as well all share. Besides, you’ve already got the bedroom charmed for dark in the morning, and I think we’ll be wanting that after the amount we’ve drunk tonight. This room’s bright as a fire at sunrise.”

“I don’t…”

“Scared, Potter?” The sneer is familiar, the smile behind it teasing rather than mean now. Still, Harry reacts to Draco’s dig as he always has.

“Of course I’m not. But if I kick you in the middle of the night, it’s not my fault.”

“Ignore him,” Neville whispers loudly. “Harry doesn’t kick, but he does hold on like some kind of tentacled monster. I hope you’re not claustrophobic.”

Harry doesn’t know how to read the glance Draco throws his way.

It’s complicated getting ready for bed. Harry and Neville have a routine where they look to opposite sides of the room while they strip down to pants and yank on a pair of trousers to sleep in. Harry likes his soft, grey trackies, and Neville has a pair of cotton sleep pants that are so faded Harry wonders sometimes why they don’t rip.

But with Draco there, Harry doesn’t quite know where to look. And neither of them have anything that would fit Draco for sleep—Harry’s too short, and Neville’s too broad—which leaves him sliding into bed with only his pants on. And no matter how good of mates they’ve become, it just feels awkward as Harry stands there, trying to decide exactly what he should do.

Neville makes a small, irritated noise, then yanks off his jeans and slides into bed in just his pants. Draco meets Harry’s gaze, one eyebrow arching in a clear dare. Harry holds his gaze as he wrestles his own jeans open, pushes them down over his hips and just barely manages to grab his boxers before they slide off as well. He feels oddly exposed when he pushes into bed beside Draco, bracketing him on the opposite side from Neville.

They pull the covers up and stretch out, and Harry does his best to turn away from Draco, even though there’s no point. The warmth of the body next to him will draw him in, and they’ll wake entangled. And it will be awkward in the morning, because while Neville and Harry have evolved something like a routine, Draco is new to the mix, and unknown in so many ways.

He draws a breath and tries to ease his way to sleep, but it doesn’t come until he feels Draco’s arm wrap around his waist, pulling him close. Another hand lies atop his hip, large fingers splayed, and Harry finally relaxes under their touch and lets the darkness claim him.

#

Draco wakes into darkness, buried in warmth and the heavy weight of two bodies entwined with his. One is sprawled face to face, Harry’s arm over his chest, his hips pressed into the bone of Draco’s hip. His leg fits between Draco’s, and slides between Neville’s as well, where Neville has Draco pulled back against him. Draco can’t see a way to unwind himself, nor, if he is honest with himself, does he want to.

It feels comfortable here, and he is tempted to drift back into sleep.

However, he is also barely clad, his morning erection pressed against Harry’s thigh with Neville’s hand looped over him, dangerously close by. He can feel the way they press against him, Harry’s hips moving in idle motion in his sleep.

If Draco moves, they will wake and realize what they have brought into their bed.

If he doesn’t move, they will still wake and find him there.

He wonders what their relationship is. Neville’s response was no answer when Draco asked, and from the events of the night before, he sees _sleep_ as the only thing on Harry’s mind, involuntary bodily reactions aside.

“Is it as good as you’d hoped?” Neville’s voice rumbles in his ear, soft and low, not enough to disturb Harry’s sleep. Draco can feel the way it echoes in his chest, and he closes his eyes for a moment.

“It’s good,” he says slowly, not sure if he’s allowed to admit exactly _how_ good it is, here in the daytime. “Is this how you and Harry wake every morning?”

“I did warn you,” Neville replies, his fingers skating down Draco’s side to find Harry’s leg. Harry twitches in response, tugging himself closer to Draco, face buried against his throat. “Truth be told,” Neville murmurs, breath teasing at Draco’s skin. “It drives me mad every day.”

And there is his answer, Draco supposes. “He doesn’t know?”

“It’s Harry,” Neville says, as if that is answer enough, and perhaps it is.

Harry, who likely has never noticed how Neville looks at him, and who has never thought that Draco himself might be interested. Harry, who moves through life without knowing exactly how he impacts those around him.

Harry, who is at this moment rutting silently against Draco’s thigh.

“I don’t know if I could do it,” Draco says softly. “With Astoria, there would have been no… hunger.”

“With Astoria there would also be no relief.” Neville slides his hand over the sharp angle of Draco’s hip, dips down to cup the cloth covered morning erection. Draco bites back a groan, fights against the way he wants to thrust into that touch. He doesn’t dare, not as tangled as he is with Harry, who is still asleep.

“No,” he says, and the word comes out louder, sharper than he intends it to. Neville’s hand goes still against him, and Harry’s eyes fly open.

Harry’s brow furrows when he stares at Draco sleepily. “No, what?”

Draco has no idea what to say. For once, there is no witty remark, no cutting barb to salve his ego when he is injured. Instead he simply flushes brightly.

He hears a mutter of _in for a bloody knut_ behind him, then Neville’s voice comes, quiet and a little rough. “I was offering to give Draco a bit of a wank.”

Harry colors brightly. “Oh. Ah. I should… I could give the two of you some privacy, then. I mean, that’s why I offered to kip on the couch last night. So you two could—I’m not _blind_ , I saw the way you were looking at each other.”

“And I asked you to sleep _here_ ,” Neville counters.

Harry is confused, his body stiff, his prick still pressed tight against Draco where they rolled together in the night. His skin is bright and warm, and his mouth is slightly open and all Draco can think is what it might look like if he fed his prick in, watched Harry swallow it down.

It’s a beautiful image.

“You don’t need to go anywhere,” Draco says quietly. “After all, one might think that three sets of hands would be better than two.” 

Harry’s mouth snaps shut, gaze darting from Draco to Neville and back again. “You want me to…?”

“Yes, you obtuse dunderhead, we are both asking you to have sex this morning,” Draco snaps. “Are you _scared_ , Potter, or do you want to get off?”

“Get off.” The words sound strangled when Harry says them, but there is no doubt in the way he reaches for Draco, or the way his body surges up when Draco stretches out over him, pressing hip to hip, grinding down and feeling the delicious slide of prick against prick through the thin fabric of their pants.

It is almost _perfect_ the way Harry cries out, and Draco wonders just how starved for affection the Boy Wonder is, and how quickly he might reach orgasm just from this little touch. He bends his head, kisses Harry’s collarbone, laps at it with his tongue while his hips move, grinding along Harry’s prick. He catalogs each little moan and whine, kissing his way along Harry’s throat, up to his jawbone and finally finding his lips, swallowing a whimper down while Harry shudders.

“You didn’t,” Draco whispers.

“Not yet.” Harry’s fingers cling to Draco’s hips. “But I’m close.”

“We could have been doing this all along,” Neville points out. “Every bloody morning, Harry.” He fits himself behind Draco, and Draco can feel that Neville has discarded his pants, his prick thick and heavy where it lies between the cheeks of Draco’s arse. He shifts, fucking that crease, dragging fabric along skin in a way that teases Draco unmercifully.

“You want…”

“Fuck, yes.” Neville leans past Draco, just barely manages to brush his lips against Harry’s. He captures Draco on the way back, tugging his head to one side so Neville can kiss him thoroughly, tongue sweeping into his mouth. “We’re going to do this, yeah?” he asks. “Tell me we’re going to do this.”

“Yeah,” Harry whispers, and Draco echoes it with a groan.

“Good.”

Neville tugs Draco’s pants down just enough to expose the crease of his arse, giving himself room to fuck through it. He brings lubricant from somewhere, creating a slick channel for a prick that feels far too large, catching on his rim every time it passes by. It feels _good_ , in ways that _nothing_ has felt good for so damned long, and Draco whines, arching into it, then swaying forward to slide against Harry again. 

When Harry cries out, Draco knows he’s close. He doesn’t want to touch him, doesn’t want anything more than the slip and slide of clothed pricks pushed together like fucking teenagers frotting on the couch of the common room. He pushes harder, each thrust moving him between the friction of Harry’s dick and Neville behind him, and he can feel himself tipping close to the edge. He _won’t_ , because he has more control than that, but he wants Harry to do it. Draco wants to see _him_ lose control, and he starts thrusting roughly, trying to shove him over the edge.

Fingers dig into the skin that stretches over bones on Draco’s hips as Harry arches up under him, green eyes wide and bright as indistinct words spill from his lips. He shudders, and everything is suddenly wet and slick between them before Harry collapses back with a low groan.

“Fuck, that was gorgeous.” Draco slides back on the bed, tugged by Neville until his head is level with Harry’s crotch. He can smell his sticky fluids, and when he tugs down Harry’s boxers, he sees white caught against his skin. He pushes his fingers into it, spreading it out, then uses it to stroke Harry’s softening prick.

“Too much.” Harry nudges at Draco’s hands, and Draco lets him go, instead smoothes the sticky fluid up over his stomach, painting it on his skin. It smells like musk and Harry and as soon as he’s ready again, Draco fully intends to lick him.

If he can still _think_ by then.

Neville has his arse lifted high, cheeks spread while he slides his thumb against Draco’s hole. “You want this,” he says, and it isn’t a question, just a quiet confirmation that _yes_ , Neville can do whatever he wants to Draco’s arse.

“Yes,” Draco murmurs, his mouth pressed to Harry’s thigh, fingers tangled in his hair, combing through the strands and anchoring him there while Neville slowly pushes his thumb against the rim.

It gives slowly, and Draco moans. “Fuck,” he whispers, pushing his hips back. “ _Fuck_ , Neville.”

“Not yet.” Then there is no thumb, no fat prick, only a slow swipe of something wet against him, teasing around the outside and dipping to that sensitive space between arse and balls.

How could Draco have forgotten how _patient_ Neville is? He is reminded abruptly when Neville laps at his arse like he’s the first course of a ten course meal, and he has the entirety of the afternoon before dessert. He teases him, licking around the rim before gently pushing against it. There are _sounds_ , slick and wet and sloppy as Neville fucks him open with his tongue, waiting for Draco to relax inch by inch until he feels a finger slide inside of him. But Neville doesn’t stop. He licks where his finger slowly fucks in and out of Draco, soaking him until he can add a second finger, then a third. He doesn’t try to make him wider, simply makes him _wet_ and _sloppy_ , until Draco is moaning from it.

“You like that,” Harry murmurs, his eyes going wide when Draco looks up at him. Draco wonders what he sees, how he must look in the mirror with Neville behind him, slowly readying him to be fucked.

“Love it,” Draco admits.

“Get up on your knees,” Neville tells Harry, reaching past Draco to help him to do exactly that. “Do you want to suck our Harry for me?” When Draco glances back, Neville has a hungry look, staring at Harry’s prick. 

Yes, he can bloody well do that.

He opens his mouth, lets his tongue flick against the head of Harry’s prick, half-hard but not quite ready again. “Come closer,” he instructs, and Harry shuffles on his knees until he is right there, making it easy for Draco to swallow him down.

He closes his eyes, lets the taste of Harry’s prick be the only thing he knows for just that moment. He hears instructions from Neville, doesn’t know what they are, only that Harry’s fingers tangle in Draco’s hair and his hips shift, thrusting his not-quite-soft cock into Draco’s mouth.

Then everything else is forgotten when Neville finally lines up behind him, pushing the head of his prick in hard and fast, stopping with Draco stretched wide and aching around him. Draco whines, and Harry pets his face, murmurs how good he’s doing.

Neville slides his hand over Draco’s hip. “You okay?”

Draco nods, pushes back against Neville until he slips a little further in. He lets Harry’s prick slide out of his mouth just long enough to whisper, “I’m fine, now _fuck_ me already,” before he chases it down again.

He grunts when Neville takes him at his word, sliding in hard and deep, stretching Draco like he’s never been stretched before. It feels _good_ as he sways forward from the force of his thrusts. He closes his eyes, reaches for Harry and clings to him, holding himself upright with fingertips and his mouth against Harry’s skin. He noses against Harry’s stomach, chasing down the taste of his come, licking it from his skin. He makes a path to his prick, now hard and bobbing next to Draco’s cheek, then nuzzles him fondly.

Draco opens his mouth, lets Neville’s thrusts push him forward, taking Harry’s prick against his tongue, letting him slide into his mouth. He moans, arches his back, begs for more touch and is gratified when Neville strokes his hands along Draco’s side, soothing him.

It feels good to be between them, to wake up in this way, on his knees in Harry’s bed with a prick in his mouth and another in his arse. His own cock is heavy, hanging between his legs, swaying in the air. He doesn’t dare touch it, for fear it would be all over in that moment.

Harry cups Draco’s face as he moves, thrusting into him. Draco sways between the two men, thoroughly fucked on both ends, doing his best to tease Harry with his tongue and his fingers, stroking and sucking. 

He is starting to lose control, his own motions erratic, when he feels Neville stutter behind him.

“Fuck.” The word is a groan, then Neville thrusts again, hard and fast and deep, shoving Draco forward. He cries out, bracing himself in Harry’s lap, trying not to lose his prick, but he can’t manage it, not with how hard Neville is driving into him, the entire bed shaking with his effort.

Draco presses against Harry’s thighs where he kneels on the bed, head bowed, eyes wide open now and gaze locked on where Harry’s hand moves over his cock, wanking himself swiftly. Draco’s tongue darts out, just barely touching the tip, and Harry loses control with a groan, spurting over his hand, onto Draco’s skin, and all over the bed. Neville drives into Draco one more time, and Draco feels his own orgasm tight in his thighs, twisting his gut as he comes without even being touched. Neville’s hips stutter, and Draco feels the warmth of him in his arse.

He has nothing left when he is done, his body limp and aching in perfect ways.

Harry gathers him in, helps him lie down with Neville pressed behind him. The three entwine, still sticky but sated, and Draco’s eyes drift closed.

“There is one problem with waking up this way,” he muses softly.

“And what’s that?” Neville presses a kiss to the nape of his neck, and Draco responds by passing it along with a brush of his lips against Harry’s.

“I’m bloody well exhausted again.” Draco draws in a rough breath, lets it out slowly. He considers saying something about a nap, but then it’s too late, and the darkness draws him down.

#

Neville wakes first again, and manages to carefully extricate himself from the tangled heap upon the bed. He pads naked down to the kitchen and sets water to boil while he hunts for the croissants he swears they purchased just the other morning. He finds them and uses a quick freshening spell to make sure they haven’t gone stale, then sets the tea to steep in the pot while he puts the plate and cups on a tray.

By the time he makes it back to the bedroom, Harry is doodling unseen pictures on Draco’s stomach with his fingertip, while Draco watches indulgently.

“I thought we ought to eat this time around,” Neville offers, showing the tray.

“Are you thinking of another go?” Draco asks. “Because as much as I loved that prick of yours, I don’t think I could handle a second round just yet. And we might want to do a bit of washing up.”

“I have a big bathtub,” Harry offers, and Neville almost bites his tongue trying to keep from saying exactly how often he’s imagined Harry in that particular bath. 

“We could likely all fit.” Neville tries to make it sound innocent, but Draco’s smirk makes him absolutely positive that he’s failed. “We could definitely all fit,” he says instead. “And we ought to. It’s not as if we have to be anywhere until Monday, right?”

“At some point I ought to go home,” Draco says dryly. “As lovely as this has been, I am not the one who lives here.”

“You should visit more often,” Harry tells him. “Sleep here. Wake up here.”

“I like that idea,” Neville agrees. “It’s a small flat, but we fit, and the bed is certainly big enough for three. Although perhaps next time we’ll do it with a bit less alcohol the night before, and more shagging.”

The look Draco gives him is amused and pleased, while Harry’s eyes are wide and his cheeks flushed. “Neville, did you say…”

“Yes, I am trying to point out that we could’ve been doing this all along.” Neville cradles his tea in both hands, sits on the bed next to Draco but looks at Harry. “I’m with Draco: I think it’s best to wake up with someone who is not only a friend, but someone we desire, and who is more than willing to slake that desire together. It seems to me that’s worked out for us today.”

He’s been afraid to say something for so long, afraid to be rebuffed, but everything came apart this morning and was sewn back together perfectly as far as Neville’s concerned. “Don’t you agree?” he says, worried that neither Harry nor Draco has said a word.

Draco spreads his hands. “I already said my piece concerning that last night, and this morning is only evidence to prove the point.”

Harry opens his mouth, closes it again, stares at his hands. “Do you think it would work? Gin and I… we didn’t work. You and Hannah… Draco and Astoria.”

“Harry, I’m _gay_ ,” Draco says. “Astoria and I were _never_ going to be more than friends who happened to be married and shagging other people.”

“I’m not gay. I’m both.” Neville shrugs one shoulder. “If I’m already buried this far down, might as well get it all out. Harry, I’ve fancied you since we were fourteen and you were trying to figure out what to do about the Yule Ball. Ginny knew. Luna knows—she and I have it out periodically because she thinks I’m an arse living here and not saying a word. So this is me saying it. I don’t want to arse up our friendship.” His gesture includes Draco in that, and he makes a face. “Haven’t fancied you since fourteen, sorry mate. But since about a year ago.” He shrugs. “Definitely fancied you since then. Never really thought I’d get the chance with either of you, so if it doesn’t go past this, thank you for that.”

Harry huffs a sigh, takes a croissant and bites off a chunk large enough that it takes time to chew. Neville can almost see him getting his thoughts in order, and wishes he could read minds right about now, but that’s never been his strong suit. He fiddles with his cup until Draco lays one hand over his, thumb sliding soothingly over his skin.

“Harry?” Draco asks.

“You’re two of my best mates, and frankly, I don’t want my other best mates in my bed,” Harry says. “Ginny and I—we were never quite right. And I never even thought about Ron or Hermione like this. You…” He looks at Draco with a rueful expression. “It’s probably no surprise, and Nev… every morning I’ve been having a wank in the bath right after we get up.”

“You’re not the only one.”

“Is that your way of saying you think a more bed-oriented arrangement might work?” Draco asks. He reaches for Harry, waits long enough for a nod before he slides one hand behind the nape of Harry’s neck, tugs him closer for a kiss. Neville leans in, touches Draco’s shoulder and waits patiently for his turn, and it’s well-worth waiting for.

“Yes,” Harry says softly, reaching for Neville to complete the circuit. “Yes, I am.”

Draco smirks. “Well then, the tea and croissants will wait, and as long as I’m not the one going arse up, I think another round might well be possible.”

“You’ve a lovely mouth,” Neville says, and it feels odd to be so bold, but he loves the way both men grin at him. “Why not put it to good use?”

After all, it’s not as if they have to be anywhere, and there aren’t any birds waiting on them. Seems like a perfect time for three blokes to take a chance on a good thing.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


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